


let me lay here so slow (i need never get old)

by vaudelin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dean Winchester's Birthday, Fluff and Humor, Gen, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), POV Outsider, Small Towns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-10 11:55:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17425427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaudelin/pseuds/vaudelin
Summary: The day of Dean's fortieth birthday, told from Lebanon's point of view.





	1. Richard F., 53 - Rick’s Best Meats Co.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [remmyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remmyme/gifts).



> For Remmy, for brainstorming the idea in the first place ❤

Ricky’s wrapping an order of back ribs, nodding along absently to Anderson’s chatter, when the local FBI agent appears from the condiment aisle and shuffles into the back of the line.

He’s in his off-duty wear, decked out in denim and plaid, his position betrayed only by the coiled swagger that comes from having a concealed weapon somewhere on his body. Arrived at the shop on his own, too, no partner in sight. His presence staggers Ricky for a moment, just long enough that he wonders whether this’ll be the time the agent— _Douglas, pretty sure it was Doug or Douglas, though his badge flashed seemingly by accident_ —has come to ask him questions more routine than whether Ricky can find him elk’s liver before the full moon rises.

Truthfully, Agent Doug-or-Douglas has been in here often enough that he shouldn’t rattle Ricky anymore, particularly because the guy tries his best to seem unassuming. Then again, anybody who had to stare up at a guy that tall would probably do a double-take too.

Anderson nods his appreciation and picks up his pack of ribs, hefting his way toward the storefront where Julie’s already busy at the till. Ricky then drops his focus back to Mrs. Pierson, next in line, who has approached the display case and is already rattling off her regular order of feta stuffed chicken. Hands moving, Ricky nods along like her order might deviate from the usual (it won’t), knowing that if he fails to give her sufficient eye contact she’ll lodge a back-channel complaint with his wife at their book club Saturday evening.

Agent Douglas waits offside, browsing hot sauces until the crowd in the store has dissipated, the line having dried up and died. Ricky makes a quick glance at the tills, confirms Julie’s glued back on her phone, and ushers the agent up to the display case.

“Got your lamb’s blood,” Ricky says, bending close, scarcely above a murmur. “That femur bone too. It’s a bit nicked-up—rookie did the cut—but should still be good for …” He waves his hand in a slow, small circle, roping up the idea of _whatever_ it is that Agent Douglas—Doug—needs these things for.

Ricky’s about to go for the box in the back cooler, but Doug’s eyes have widened, caught off-guard. Briefly, Ricky wonders whether the past six years of odd requests have all been an elaborate set-up for the smallest meat shop sting in FBI history.

“Uh, no actually—” Doug begins, though he backtracks as soon as he sees the color draining from Ricky’s face. “I mean, yes, I’ll take it, of course, thank you, but—well. I have to ask for something unusual this time.”

 _Oh lord_ , Ricky thinks, _he’s going to ask for something human. He_ —

“—does so much, and we were thinking of doing something special, y’know? But since he’s usually the one doing the cooking, I’m not sure what we could get, or what’s good enough to—”

“Wait,” Ricky blurts, brain lagging behind. “You’re looking for _cut recommendations_?”

Doug sags forward, breathing relief. “Yes. Exactly.”

Ricky’s shoulders slump. He takes his balance from the curved top of the display case, waiting for his brain to reboot. He’s in his element for once, except that he’s not, not by any stretch of the imagination. What do you offer the guy that regularly asks for entrails?

“So it’s a party for your partner,” Ricky says slowly.

“Uh,” Doug says. “Sure.”

“The other agent,” Ricky amends, ticking his thumb. “Got any idea yet what you’re making?”

“Something red meat,” Doug says. “Beyond that, the menu’s open.”

“A’ight.” Ricky feels the treads in his head catching traction, the engine of his mind revving back into a purr. “He a stew guy? Steak? Burger?”

“Burger,” Doug nods affirmatively.

“Bison? Pork? Angus?”

Doug grimaces. “Beef, I guess? He usually makes from scratch.”

“And lemme guess—that’s outside your comfort level, huh.” Ricky nods along when Doug does. He waves the agent down along the display. “You might be better off with a package of pre-mades rather than trying to imitate what he does.”

“Nothing frozen,” Doug quickly amends, nose wrinkling. “Sorry, just—years on the road. He knows the difference.”

“No foul,” Ricky says, shrugging. So they’re back to fresh. Beginner levels. He walks him through the chuck mixes they have on hand, the jalapeno cheddar pork patties, the pork and beef salsa, even the veggie patties they bring in custom for Peg Mussey. When none of them jump out to Doug as appealing, Ricky dials it back and thinks on it a moment, tapping a finger on the glass above the display. “Y’know, it’s a basic ground, sure, but if you’re up for it, this chuck would take to burgers beautifully.”

Doug leans in toward the glass, staring down the chuck like it might offer its own take.

Ricky scratches the back of his neck, torn between the upsale and doing right by the guy. Maybe he’s overstepping, but—“I have this homemade spice mix that’s dynamite for burgers. The whole family clamors for it as soon as barbecue season picks up. I could get a copy to you, maybe ...?”

Ricky waits the half-beat for insult to rise, if the partner is truly a connoisseur kind of guy, but thankfully Doug seems grateful for the offer rather than offended.

“You would do that?” Doug asks, clearly relieved.

Ricky beams back his own relief. “Sure, it’s no family secret. Though I’d say pick up all the recommended toppings too, if you’re looking for the full experience. He like anything extra on his bun?”

Doug huffs, laughing. “Bacon, bacon, bacon.”

Ricky claps. “Good man. We’re back in business, m’friend.”

He gets Doug to give him a rough idea of the party headcount, then starts portioning out enough ground chuck for each guest to come back for thirds. He takes a couple extra minutes to show Doug the rough size to make a patty, how to mix and shape it without overworking it. He rounds out the order with the cuts of bacon that best serve Doug’s burger schemes, finishing off the whole kit with a perfectly portioned ingredient list that Ricky scratches out on the brown wrapping paper atop the bacon slab.

“Can’t tell you how grateful I am for all the help, Rick,” Doug says, a newfound confidence entering his voice. “I gotta admit, attempting to cook my brother’s own recipe for him was … daunting, to say the least.”

“It’ll be fine,” Ricky tells him, waving idly. “Just stick to that spice ratio, and don’t overcook ‘em.”

“Thank you, seriously.” Doug looks young with this puppy-dog look, his eyes shining out from his mop of hair.

Ricky shrugs again. “It’s nothing. ‘M just glad to see you in here for something other than kidneys and hearts for once.”

Ricky smiles through the joke, but Doug frowns briefly. “No, you’re right. I should grab one too, maybe, if Garth’s gonna …” He thinks it over a moment longer, then adds with finality, “Yeah, a cow heart too, if you have one.”

Ricky nods, his grin fading. “Yeah, I got one,” he says, thumb jabbing vaguely toward the cooler. He wraps the requested offal and watches Agent Douglas embark for Julie at the till, wondering just what kind of a celebration includes burgers and a cow heart on the same menu.

“Have a good one, Doug,” Ricky shouts as he’s leaving, earning a puzzled look from the agent, followed by a tight wave from his free hand.

It’s only after Doug is gone, the bell above the door tinkling shut, that Ricky remembers the lamb’s blood and femur in the back.


	2. Ryan C., 23 - Men of Letters Bunker

When Ryan’s old life ended with a jump through an inter-dimensional rift, she had just assumed that her mandatory routine training would’ve fallen by the wayside too.

As it is, she takes the hit and thumps down on the gym mat _hard_ , Maggie’s side-sweep hooking her shin and reeling her over. She shakes herself out along the floor, catching her breath before begrudgingly accepting the hand that Maggie offers to her. Tight grip, counterbalance weight, and then by mutual agreement the two of them are upright and limping their way over to the towel rack.

Ryan dabs at her overheated face, grimacing at the sweat dripping freely down her back. “I hate you,” she grumbles, not for the first time this session.

Maggie laughs, and squirts the dregs of her water bottle directly onto her face.

The tremors in Ryan’s legs are fading as she follows Maggie out into the hall, the coolness of the tile and concrete leaching up into her bare feet. Take away the solidity of the foundation, the clean stone and the _wholeness_ of the place, and the bunker’s not so different than back home. Ryan still has a schedule, still has duties to keep. Still feels like an interloper, a lamb among soldiers in a war she never signed up for.

Maggie, though …

“Are you still seeing Nate?” Ryan asks as casually as she can manage while still partly out of breath.

Maggie sighs, her smile turning wistful. “A bit,” she answers, nodding vaguely.

“Too bad,” Ryan says, reading between the lines. It had been good, seeing Maggie venture out beyond their new outpost, taking in the quiet town and lush countryside that surrounds it, the normalcy they’d all but forgotten had once existed back home. It would be good to see that continue, that the both of them might find some semblance of peace here. Ryan had been afraid that being targeted by the devil himself might’ve taken Maggie’s peace away.

But then Maggie continues brightly, “I mean, between hunting and training, I haven’t really been out that way much. You’ve heard about those vamp nests spreading east, right? Sam says if I can get the skills down in time, I might be able to join the team taking them out in East Kentucky.”

Ryan nods, expression soft despite her disappointment. She’s seen less and less of her friend lately, and part of her had hoped that had been due to reasons beyond live-risking adventures. She’d hoped that having a social life had finally registered back on Maggie’s radar, that they finally had the chance to be light and frivolous in a way neither of them have properly pursued in years.

Maggie must read her tension, despite how Ryan’s trying to hide it. Her smile softens, becomes something almost encouraging. “You could probably take a couple hunts too, if you wanted to. I could ask Sam if there’s something we could work together—”

“It’s okay,” Ryan says quickly, too quickly to pass for natural. Maggie looks a bit bruised by it, leaving Ryan to struggle for what else she can say. “I only mean—hunting’s kinda your thing now. I’d only be—”

“You wouldn’t be in the way,” Maggie chides, her grin returning. “I seem to remember you throwing some mean right hooks, both back home and back there.” Her chin lifts back toward the hall they just came from.

Ryan shrugs, the compliment warming her, even if she isn’t really interested in what inspired it. She knows she has some defensive skills, but she’s intentionally let herself grow rusty. She’s just never been interested in facing down monsters herself. “It’s just nice. Finally. Having some options besides fight or die.”

Maggie nods, happier this time. “That’s the good thing about this world. At least we have the choice.”

Ahead, from the entryway of the kitchen, a metallic clattering rings out along the concrete, and the smell of something burning floods the corridor. The noise continues rattling across the floor, followed by rough-voiced grumbling. Above it Ryan hears a woman’s voice laughing, distorted by something more than distance.

Ryan looks to Maggie, who seems as equally intrigued by the commotion. Together, they approach the source of the smoke gently wafting from the kitchen.

Inside, Ryan finds the angels.

Well. Angel and son-of-archangel.

Son of the man who once killed Maggie.

Ryan sucks in a breath, taking a moment to remind herself that the angels here are allies. They aren’t dressed for combat, and neither of them mean her any harm. When she’s recovered, she glances over to Maggie, but whatever Maggie is feeling at the moment refuses to show on her face.

Of the two of them, Jack is more familiar to Ryan, if only for his strategic help at the Dayton outpost back in her world. The other one—Castiel—is a stranger to her save for his ever-present trench coat shuffling past the war room, taking up as much space in the bunker as Sam’s evasive brother.

Both Jack and Castiel are currently covered from the knees-down in a floury mixture, the victims of an upheaved bowl. Ryan spies what looks like eggshells gummed to the top of Castiel’s shoe. The crusty dregs of whatever they’d been mixing lies in lumps across the floor.

Castiel swipes his hands against each other, resigned in some eternal, bone-wearying way. He surveys the mess with one arched brow. “When I said less flour, this wasn’t what I intended.”

From a phone on the counter, the woman’s voice cackles loudly again. When she’s recovered enough to speak, she says through the speakerphone, “Clean up and try again, boys. You’re not leaving until there’s at least one good pie to your names.”

Jack crouches over the spray of flour on the floor, a dustpan and hand brush at the ready, waiting offside from the island. He glances up to Castiel, then shifts his gaze toward the speakerphone. “Are you sure this is the right recipe? Castiel and I have followed it exactly three times now, but the dough is still too flaky to roll.”

“There’s no such thing as too flaky a pie crust,” the woman announces. “That recipe’s from one of Jody’s cookbooks. She wouldn’t have it lying around if it was garbage, so just …” A vague huffing noise, then, “Do it right. I guess.”

“Thank you, Claire, very helpful,” Castiel says grumpily. He places the rinsed bowl atop the other dishes stacked around the sink, some dirtied steak knives and other ancient utensils, none of which seem like reasonable tools for baking. Nearby, a pot on the stove bubbles gently, spitting smoke and the occasional spattering of its contents, the color of which is a badly burned bruise. Neither angel seems aware that the pot has cooked down to its dregs.

As Jack is cleaning, his gaze sweeps toward the door, and when his eyes catch hers, Ryan freezes like a frightened deer. She grabs impulsively for Maggie, who allows Ryan’s grip on her forearm. She tells herself again that he’s a normal kid now, nothing to fear.

The angels here are allies.

Jack looks desperately between them, rising with the dustpan gently clouding in his wake. “Do either of you know how to bake a pie?”

Ryan glances to Maggie, urging her to speak up. Maggie shakes her head minutely in response.

“Um,” Ryan begins, “I’ve made flatbread before, if that counts?”

“Any experience counts,” Castiel grumbles at the counter.

“ _Any_ ,” Jack repeats.

Ryan looks again to Maggie for support, but this time Maggie has prised herself from Ryan’s hold, and has begun backing away from the kitchen with her hands raised. “Sorry, guys, but I have a mission,” she says, which is a lie so far as Ryan knows, even if she can’t prove it.

Ryan makes a frantic scramble to join her friend, but Maggie gently pushes her back toward the fray, her eyes conveying clear endearment for both her friend and the hapless men.  
“Don’t worry,” Maggie murmurs, “they’re both total sweethearts. You’re safe here.”

“Then _you_ help them,” Ryan hisses back.

But Maggie has already slipped away with more grace and speed than Ryan recognizes, mouthing, _Have fun_ , from the safety of the hallway. Ryan turns bodily toward Maggie, masking the middle finger she fires at her friend in retaliation for her abandonment.

The voice on the phone bursts over the line again. “Cas, buddy, you got company? Who’s there with you?”

Tentatively, Ryan enters the kitchen, tiptoeing around the residual flour starbursts on the floor. She tightens the towel draped over her neck with both fists, then tucks her hair behind an ear as she leans closer to the phone. “This is Ryan, but … I don’t really know how to bake either.”

The voice, Claire, begins laughing. “That just means you fit right in.”


	3. Valerie K., 21 - SuperValu

Val is on shift in the fresh produce section, stacking waxy red apples into neat piles, when the automatic doors hiss open, giving way to a trio of girls she’s never seen before.

She knows most of the kids that are still around town, thanks to peddling her youngest sister back and forth to high school. Her own graduation might be only a few years behind her, but the classmates that’ve stuck around she can count on one hand, and the pack in front of her pales any recollection Val has of those kids who’ve taken their graduation cap and run three hundred miles in any given direction.

These girls all have long glamorous hair: one dark and straight, the other two with rippling waves. They wear layered coats over their jeans, but the blonde tops off her look with a leather jacket that seems authentic and worn-in.

Val knows a jacket like that couldn’t have been bought locally, no way. And nobody around here gets away with smoky eyes before six o'clock unless they’re only passing through.

The two girls with dark hair make a beeline for the center aisles and snack section, leaving the blonde to what looks like an ongoing conversation she’s having on her cellphone.

Val drops her gaze back to the apples, long enough that she can finish facing the section and pack her emptied boxes onto the cart. She wheels by the front bakery instead of heading to the back, earning a scowl from her supervisor, Josh, over at the deli counter, but Val pays him no heed as she faces the displays on her way.

Closer now, Val can pick up the flavor of the blonde’s conversation, the cheerful laugh she’s offering whoever is on the other end of the line. Staring down at the plastic-wrapped trays of today’s pastries, Val can’t glean anything more by eavesdropping other than the girl seems to be experiencing the joyful high of schadenfreude.

From the corner of her eye, Josh is dragging fierce bullhorns from his eyes toward her, his brow dropped in a glower. Val blames this distraction as the reason for her inattention, for why the blonde is able to sneak up on her at all.

“Excuse me?” the girl says, far closer than she was before.

Val jumps, gripping a tray of strudels hard enough that surely it’ll be docked from her pay. She whips around with her best customer service smile pre-plastered on, her eyes wide and over-bright as she says, “Can I help you?”

The blonde girl glances her over, her demeanor calming when she notices the _In-Training_ marker above Val’s name tag. She’s even prettier up close, beautiful in an unfairly genetic way. She asks, “D’you guys have a … birthday section? If that’s a thing?”

Val stutters over the request. “You mean like, food-birthday? Or card-birthday?”

The blonde nods definitively. “Card-birthday. Like candles. And tablecloths. And if you have any of that annoying canned silly string in green or pink. Ooh, and sprinkles.”

“Well, candles are over by baking supplies,” Val says, pointing to a distant aisle. But the blonde’s looking at her a bit expectantly, as if out of her depth in a grocery store, so Val takes initiative and abandons her loading cart to the bakery, Josh’s wrath be damned. “Right this way.”

Val finds the correct section for candles straight away, and the blonde grabs a couple packages of novelty candles and a six-pack of sparklers. They knock off a couple more items on the checklist, where somehow both the superhero-themed streamers and the pretty princess party favors are excitedly proclaimed _perfect_. The girl checks her phone list in between fielding texts from what seems like a hundred different people. It’s only while looking for the more specific party supplies that Val’s memory starts failing, and she begins to lead the blonde astray.

“So ... birthday?” Val asks, filling in the silence as she wanders them through the remainder of the store. She’s thinking of the other two girls, and what would bring them all out to the boonies. Couldn’t be one of them celebrating, otherwise they would’ve just stayed far from Lebanon.

The girl shrugs, smiling to herself. “Family friend. Kinda a weird uncle, I guess? It's his big four-oh.”

Val nods along, scouring her memories for a man who might fit the description, but the locals she knows in the over-twenty crowd are almost entirely all blood kin. “Must be close, if you guys traveled in for it.” The girl looks up from her phone, surprised, so Val gestures to her hands. “The last girl who wore black nails around here moved away the same day as grad.”

“But you’re around still, huh?” the girl says, shrewdly eyeing Val’s own acrylics.

The attention makes Val shy away her hands. She tucks into herself, shoulders rounding. “I just started a couple weeks ago,” she admits, keeping her gaze away. “My supervisor hates it, but my sister did ‘em for me as a hiring gift.” Glittery purple, her favorite color. Kari has talent for it, even if the demand around here is pretty slim. “Too dark for the dress code, I guess.”

The girl tucks her phone away, turning a small smile right at her, and Val has to hide all the staring she wants to do, the awe she feels being near a glamorous girl from nowhere near here. “Oh yeah? So I’m guessing this isn't the dream job. Just looking for the extra bucks?”

Val exhales deeply. “Extra bucks, definitely. I was working for the guys over at Ray’s farm for a while, but then the guys were, well, _guys_ , and—” Val swallows. “Anyway, my whole family’s in on this direct marketing thing, and they keep trying to sign me up for it, but I figured if I had a legit job, well, maybe they’d stop trying to make me—” Val bites the inside of her cheeks. “Sorry, I’m rambling. I just want to get out.”

She shocks herself with the admittance, the cold wash of truth hitting her harder than her embarrassment. Sure, it’s no secret that Val wants to move, but to just go telling people that, it’s …

Letting her hopes run loose like that just sets Val up for failure.

The girl, for what it’s worth, pauses her idle browsing of the aisle around them. She hangs serious and still at Val’s side, the half-filled basket of streamers and candles lumped against her leg, her arms drooping from her pockets.

Val feels her cheeks burn in the quiet. She didn’t want to look stupid in front of such a cool girl.

“Your whole family is from around here?” the girl asks eventually, after sufficient time has passed for Val to calm down.

Val nods, shamefaced. “Been stuck here for generations.” Her mom, stuck at part-time over at the clothing store, making ends meet by spending her downtime selling marked-up cosmetics to the same fifteen cousins on Facebook. Her older sister, another stay-at-home, doing the same with marked-up health cleanses. Val knows they’re a scam, but still she buys from both of them whenever she can, just to keep their spirits up.

The girl nods, sobering on the silence. “Well, when you move, keep in touch, y'know? I mean, if they’re good to you. If they’re good, then don’t forget them when you’re gone.”

The way she says it, with this sober look on her face, makes Val think this advice comes from a personal place. Val does her best to bestow it with honor, nodding like it’s the wisest thing she’s ever heard.

The blonde’s phone buzzes, and she shuffles her hand free from the basket in order to fish her cell out from her pocket. Val catches a glimpse of badly-burned baked goods flashing up on-screen.

The girl shakes her head and murmurs, “Damnit, Cas, you had one job …” Back to Val, she asks, “Are pre-made pie crusts anywhere around here?”

Val raises her chin, angling out with confidence. “Back section, by the eggs and dairy.” She heads out, pointing them down the correct path to take.


	4. Natasha L., 67 - Lutwig Gas Bar

A shadow rolls over the signal bell between pumps one and two, and through the scummy windows Nat spies a long black car rumbling to a stop with its nose long past the door. Her mouth tightens, and her gaze dips back down to the paperback she had been thumbing through, biding time between fill-ups. She finishes the paragraph she’s on before bringing her attention back outside.

This particular black car Nat has seen park by her pumps more often than the rest of the town combined. A beautiful piece of muscle, stopping by with the boys that own her twice a week or more, always needing more than the quarter tank top-up that tends to be favored upon the vintage models that cross her path. No, the old darling seems to earn her drinks pacing dirt roads every day. Nat suspects her mileage counts far beyond what her years would otherwise carry.

Not that Nat’s complaining. Darling’s visitations have kept Nat in business longer than most small town stops get in this day and age. Before the boys moved in somewhere nearby, Nat had to shutter her doors at eight each night and on civic holidays, if she ever meant to have an hour’s peace of her own. Now she at least can afford a couple hired hands to warm her seat during the peak hours.

Nat takes up her cane and angles her head, squinting like that will bring her closer to the door. The brother with the short hair is driving today, no surprise there. The two people with him, however, aren’t familiar to Nat yet. There’s a boy, sitting in the passenger side, and darling’s hardly come to a stop before the side rear door is thrown open, and a girl of about the same age has darted around it and is knocking on the glass for his attention.

The boy rolls down the window instead of opening the door, his expression carrying an air of sibling smugness, and the girl wags her finger at him like he’s just backed out of a deal. Nat’s gaze roves over to the brother, the driver, who shouts something at both of them over the roof of the car, looking like he’s scolding the infants for slapping darling’s glass. Whatever he says, it brings the siblings back onside with each other. The boy rolls his eyes, and with an exaggerated flare he climbs out from the passenger side, following his sister’s lead toward the store.

The sister checks her hip against the door, awakening its obnoxious chime, and as it rings out the boy’s voice carries through the din. “—Slim Jims and another coffee for Mister Pick-Me-Up back there.” He drifts from her in the chip aisle, while she carries on a bit farther for the drinks at the back. “How much longer did Sam and Jody say?”

The girl sighs and brings out her phone. “First thought was forty. Now he’s saying they need another four.”

“Another _four hours_?” The boy scoffs. “That’s a joke, right?”

“Nope,” the girl says, popping the word.

The boy’s gaze unfocuses, drifting off without its lynchpin. “How the hell do we kill four hours in a town this size.”

The sister continues typing, then frowns when her phone buzzes. “Uhh, sounds like there’s now a fire at the bunker? Better make that five.”

The boy turns to her slowly, disbelief hanging from his slackened jaw.

She shrugs. “Could ask him to take us to Smith Center.”

“And say what, huh? We want to go shopping in _Smith Center_? Seriously?”

She rolls her eyes, nonplussed. “Where’re your bright ideas, genius?”

“A case?” he says, but she shakes her head.

“Would take too long. Besides, he wouldn’t buy that we’d just found it.”

The boy sighs, cursing.

Nat, who has kept her gaze unmoving on her paperback up until now, grabs her cane and a paper bag, and shuffles out the front door.

The brother looks up from where he’d been leaning against the pump, nodding his recognition. He’s wearing a canvas jacket and work boots, and no blood on his jeans today.

Fuel sings its way into the car. His thumbs clack away on his phone.

“Need a squeegee,” Nat gruffs out, knowing by now the answer.

The boy shakes his head. “Thanks, but no.” He hesitates, then adds, “My brother hasn’t been by, has he?”

Nat huffs. She’s better with cars, not faces, but this is an answer she knows. She shuffles over to her smoking chair, on the other side of the firewood. She sets the paper bag on her lap and rifles through her pockets until she finds a cancer stick. “What plates he driving? Back to them South Dakota ones?”

The boy freezes, as if caught out. Nat puffs around her lighter and waits impatiently for him to thaw. “Think it was a white truck, last I saw.”

Nat shrugs with her bad shoulder. “Seen all sorts of plates today. South Dakota. Texas. Minnesota. Even saw a New Mexico one roll by.” That one had been a thirsty beast, dropping an extra eighty in her pocket when the boys driving it wanted a couple jerry cans for some bonfire being planned tonight.

The boy narrows his eyes at that, head twitching through a waylaid comment. His lips shine when he licks them, and then he leans in, all business. “You saying there’s strange vehicles in town?” He looks around, as if suspecting they’ll all roll out from the fields as one unit.

Nat, who knows more than she should, knows enough to say nothing. The fact the taller brother isn’t with him, and the two rugrats inside are biding time keeping him away from something, paints a picture as to what’s coming in his future pretty darn quick.

The pump clicks off while the brother’s puzzling through what it all means. He fetches it, hangs it back on its hook almost absently. His phone then blurps in his pocket, pulling him back to reality. He sets a hand to the coat’s lining and then draws it out, quick as a magician. Whatever message he finds, it makes him sigh with a dramatic flare. “Damnit, Sammy, whatever you’re doing …”

His phone goes back inside, his wallet sliding out in its place. Nat sucks down the last of her stick and drops it to the frozen ground, stubbing it out with an expert jab from her cane. She has her hand free and ready by time he’s passing the wad of twenties over, too much for what the rig’s display says, though if she calls him on it he’ll just lie and say her eyes aren’t good enough to read it from all the way over here. “To cover whatever they’re—” he waves at the kids, unsupervised in the snack aisles, “—getting inside.”

Nat hums agreement. He turns away, and she grabs the cuff of his coat before he manages to withdraw. For a moment, she feels the fighter’s instinct roiling up through his arm—his shoulder coming into flex, his legs buckling down, feet digging in planted and sturdy. It’s gone before either of them can truly register it, let alone provide comment.

“Yeah?” the brother says in his whiskey-rough way.

Nat thrusts the paper bag out at his gut, startling him enough that he grabs it on instinct.

“Cherry braids,” Nat tells him. Her recipe, though her rhumed-up wrists required they be baked by her daughter. “For you and yours, if you feel inclined to share.” Six of them. Nat would’ve packed more for the afternoon, but her grandkids had made their way into their mother’s handiwork as soon as the braids had cooled, and their household supplies had been decimated.

He frowns down at her, lifting the bag. “What’s this for?”

Nat looks off to the horizon. She taps her cane against the concrete. “Luanne’s got more plumbing problems happening. Out at the farm. Was wondering if you cared to stop in again and see about it.” He’d been out there the year before, dealing with a prowler that had turned out to be more than a prowler. Dust had likely collected on the memory, but he was the type to keep her in mind.

“Today?” he asks.

Nat shrugs. “I know, it’s a drive. Just she’s got the kids this weekend, and with no hot water …”

“And Luke won’t help?”

Nat laughs, phlegmy. “You know him. Just spits them out the back seat and drives off again.”

His face softens. “Yeah, no, I get it.” He shuffles a moment, deciding. “You’ll call her to tell her I’m coming?”

That, and that Luanne better loosen the heater’s manifold before he shows up at her door. “Can do, if you’re willing.”

“Yeah,” he says, tone firming as he warms into the decision. “Yeah, I can do it.”

They have a moment looking at each other, him leaning back on darling’s side. The overcast afternoon softens the edges of him, makes him younger than the mileage on him calls for. Then the station door burps open with its clanging chime, and the moment breaks with the siblings coming her way.

Nat nods sharply at them, their armfuls of sugar water and potato chips, and hefts herself up with her cane. “Already paid for,” she says, brusquely slicing through their offers to talk. To the brother, now back on darling’s driver’s side, she offers him a feeble wave. “Happy birthday, kid.”

The shocked look on his face takes a long time fading. He looks at her with a faint air of wonder before his smile flashes up to meet his eyes. “Thanks, Nat.”

Nat nods again gruffly. She watches the siblings scramble into their seats, the sister in front this time, and waits for darling to disappear beyond her line of sight before shuffling back inside.


	5. Hank J., 55 - Brewed Awakening

“Does she seem strange to you?”

Hank looks up slowly from his sudoku, contemplating the value of reacting to his junior reporter’s commentary. It took a month to warm up to the new hire, but Hank’s learned by now that the kid’s net for ‘strange’ casts wide and catches everything, including more than it should.

Kurt’s gaze is currently somewhere off past Hank’s shoulder, fixated on what must be the source of the bell-like brogue lilting out an order of irish cream to Suzie. Kurt’s hands twist around his coffee cup, twitching for the notepad sitting ready in his pocket. Hank knows from this morning’s submissions that Kurt has his weeklies ready for tonight’s cutoff, but when the paper rolls out Monday morning it’ll be his first-ever editorial that’s coming due.

Hank crooks around in his chair until he spies a petite woman with red hair, well-dressed, sitting on her own in the coffee shop’s window seat. In a town like Lebanon she sticks out like a sore thumb, sure, seeing how dust and denim are the typical evening wear, and while her accent is unusual enough that Hank might’ve offered a clipped  _Uh-huh_  to Kurt in reply, he’s seen her and her bodyguard sweep through town enough times that he’s categorized her as One of Them. Hank better see to the kid’s curiosity and stomp down on it, hard.

Hank shrugs neutrally. “Somebody’s relative, likely. Visiting from out of town.”

“Whose though?” Kurt continues. “Kansas was mostly settled by the Germans and Russians. I wouldn’t say Scottish pilgrims were high up on the list.”

“Your degree tell you that?” Hank says dryly. He scuffs his eraser across a sudoku tile, scratches over the 9 with a 3. “Why don’t you take it up with her, see what she thinks about her relatives breaking the mold?”

Kurt senses the sarcasm, but he doesn’t let the subject settle. His grip tightens on his coffee, threatening the cracks in the porcelain. “I’m serious, Hank. Maybe it’s nothing, but sometimes a whole lot of nothing can add up to something. Don’t you see the strange things that happen around here?”

Kurt’s eyes flit around coffee row, hungry for this week’s inspiration. Hank thinks back to his hiring day, how Kurt had sat on the edge of his chair in the editor’s room, filled with the black-and-white certainty that only the young or naïve can substitute for truth. The calling, Kurt had described, both on his resume and in person, to be a journalist. The painfully apparent desire for a position at any place that would take him, even in a flyspeck like Lebanon.

Hank feels partly bad for the role he plays in leading Kurt astray, but he knows the rough balance of favors between the town and the Lot of Them, and it leans considerably toward keeping his mouth shut. “It’s just a woman, not a story. Leave the tourists be.”

The bell above Suzie’s door tinkles out a proclamation of further customers, and Hank watches Kurt’s attention swivel, owl-like, onto the two older women who have just arrived—one with a bouncy blonde ponytail, the other with closely-cropped peppered hair. The women approach the baked goods’ display and order strudels from Suzie before heading for the nearest empty table. He catches the imperceptible nod the short-haired one casts the Scottish woman, and wishes briefly that Kurt wasn’t so sharp that he caught it too.

Kurt whips around to look at Hank, the whisper hissing through his teeth. “More strangers,” he says. “Cops, too.”

Hank rubs his eyes, taking a moment to brace himself. He looks the women over and, yeah, they look like law enforcement to him too, damnit. This one would be harder to pass away.

“Visitors,” Hank murmurs again. “Getting coffee. Nothing about it’s a crime, Kurt. Calm down.”

“Lots of strange types passing through today,” Kurt says idly, his attention glossy and fixated on an idea far away. “I was watching main street while interviewing Anne Lawson about the fundraiser next month. There was a whole convoy of out-of-state plates passing through, all heading for the old station road.” Kurt’s focus comes back into him then, honing in sharply on Hank. “D’you think they have something to do with the men who maintain the power station out there?”

Inwardly, Hank cusses. Leave it to the rookie reporter to put his nose in One of Them’s business. The power station is one of the town’s worst-kept secrets, but still they somehow manage to keep the worst of the rumors at bay.

Blessedly or not, Hank is saved from having to supply Kurt a response when Suzie’s door rings open again, this time with three girls who come crashing in, and with Two of Them hot on their tails. The girls pause for half a heartbeat, maybe, looking around, and then the one with dark straight hair makes a beeline for the maybe-cops’ table. She’s out of breath as she announces, her tone a touch beneath aggressive-panic, “Deadline’s up and we still don’t have burgers, and the stove’s totally out of commission. Alicia says they can buy us another two hours, maybe, but there’s no way we can—”

“Wait, wait. Hold up.” The cop with short hair fans her hands out, giving a calming look to the trio of girls. “Alex, take a breath. Tell me what happened.”

The cop with the ponytail perches an elbow on the coffee table, her smile seemingly ready for a good tale.

“Cas burnt the kitchen down,” the blonde girl announces, thumbing at the older One of Them who’d followed the girls inside.

The man in the trench coat moves stiffly, his arms rigid at his side. “We may have caused some smoke damage, but it was Sam’s burgers that caused the fire.”

“To be fair, it was our flour on the stove that caught fire,” the boy says helpfully, to which the man’s expression clearly states his feelings on that, something along the lines of, _You just couldn’t have left that part out, could you_. The boy must glean as much from it too, because he quickly adds, “But Claire’s recipe wasn’t working, even after six tries. It kept asking for eleven cups of flour, and we ran out of—”

“What? No,” the blonde girl shouts, clearly outraged. “I typed the instructions out _exactly_. It says _One and a quarter_ , nimrod, not—”

“You were asking _Claire_ for baking help?” The short-haired cop whistles sadly. “Oh, honey, no. No wonder you were having trouble.”

“Hey!”

Through the ensuing commotion, Hank picks out the building peal of laughter coming from the cafe’s window seat. The women and Them all quiet down, allowing the lilting brogue to command the interest of the crowd. “Did no one see this coming? Leave it to the Winchesters to ruin a day celebrating one of their own.” She tsks, looking to the One in the trench coat. “Now, was it ever a thought to include me in on your party-planning?”

The young One looks to who might be his father, hesitating, then back to her. “Maybe there’s something you could do about the kitchen …?”

The Scot scoffs, clearly outraged. “I’m not a glorified _spring cleaner_. If you ruined the place, I’m not finding a spell to sort it back out in time!”

The man in the trench coat sighs unhappily, hands flexing at his sides. He says quietly, “We just wanted it to be perfect.”

The boy sags. “And now even the decorations are gone.”

That sets the girls off on further reprimands, their shouts filled indiscriminately with _How could you burn the streamers_ and _Those party favors were_ perfect, _how dare you_. Beneath the higher tones of argument, and the short-haired cop’s aggressive attempts to soothe them, Hank picks out the ponytailed cop and the trench coat discussing where else in town they might feasibly gather a couple dozen of their kind.

Hank recovers enough of himself to glance back at his tablemate. Kurt, for his part, is scribbling frantically across his napkin and Hank’s sudoku book, his hand flailing like a courtroom stenographer gone mad.

“This proves it,” Kurt says, when he realizes he has Hank’s attention. “The power plant guys, the _Winchesters_ —there’s something out there, isn’t there? If they have a kitchen, a _spell_ —there must be a house, and if it’s burning down then there’s smoke, and it could lead us—”

“Kurt,” Hank says sharply, ripping his sudoku book out from Kurt’s sweaty hands. “ _Lay off_.” To the women, he clears his throat loudly and shouts his kindest  _Ladies_ into the chaos. Their attention falls to him, one by one.

“Ladies, if I may,” Hank begins again peaceably, unsure of where his welcome lies. “If you need a gathering room on short notice, there’s the senior’s center over on Truman Road.” Glancing between them, he makes a course adjustment, adding, “But if you need a liquor license, then you ought to go talk to Donnie. He likes your lot—” eyes to the trench coat “—enough that he’d probably put you up for the night. Get to him quick enough before opening and I’m sure he’d keep the doors shut for you all.”

The cops look to the man with the trench coat, who looks to the young blonde like she has the final say. They all seem to be only just realizing that they’ve been speaking—loudly—in public, and that the few patrons sitting around them know more than perhaps they wish was out in open air.

“Does this Donnie guy cook decent burgers?” the blonde asks, not without an air of suspicion.

Hank shrugs. “If you treat him nicely, I’m sure he will.”

The girl nods, her shoulders dropping. “Good enough.”

“What about pies?” the boy asks, looking to the trench coat. “Will he have those too?”

Hank glances over to Suzie, standing behind the till. She looks unimpressed as she rolls her eyes at him, but nonetheless she gives Hank an affirming nod.

“No,” Hank says, “but Suzie here will, if you ask politely and tip her well.”

Suzie nods once at the boy, when he glances to her guilelessly. She drags a scratchpad out from her pocket and looks between him and the man in the trench coat. “What flavor, what number, and what time,” she says, and the two men begin filling her in on the details.

The cops take a moment to look over Hank, soft smiles approaching him from across their tables. “Thank you for the tips,” the short-haired cop says, raising her cup to him in salute.

Hank drops his chin to his chest, blushing. “Those boys’ve been a big help around town, in more ways than I can count. If you’re throwing them a party, well, I’d say they deserve it.”

That earns him warm looks from the lot of them, and enough attention that Hank has to shy away back into his sudoku book.

He doesn’t have a moment’s peace with the puzzles before Kurt’s eyes are boring holes into him, a hundred unasked questions foaming up the junior’s neck. Hank sighs, reaching for his pencil. “What now, Kurt,” he says.

“We have to go to Donnie’s,” Kurt stage-whispers, his napkin crumpling with the veracity of his claims. “ _Tonight_. If all these people are there at once, there’s gotta be a story behind it. What are they celebrating, and who are these Winchesters—”

“Kurt,” Hank says baldly. “Son. All you need to know about ‘these Winchesters’ is they’ve earned their peace.” He snaps open a fresh page of his sudoku book, his knuckles running firmly down the crease. “This town knows all they need to know about them. Write this week’s opinion article on something else.”

Kurt looks close to handing in his resignation papers, for all that he seemingly appreciates Hank’s firm suggestions. He says nothing for a long while, the darkening shade along his cheeks conveying all Hank needs to know regarding his position on the matter.

Softening, Hank mulls the best scrap to give him, the bone with just enough gristle on it that Kurt will stop for a while to chew it over. Hank says calmly, thinking of one night in particular, “Those boys do the kind of work that allows the rest of us to sleep soundly. Now if you don’t know what exactly that means, you ought to consider yourself lucky and leave it at that. Alright?”

Kurt nods slowly, his eyes belligerent but otherwise seemingly kowtowed. His gaze flicks back toward the cops and the Scot, the girls and the Two of Them now bustling as a collective out the door. “So when we see those types, we just … leave them to it? We just trust that what they’re up to is okay?”

“Believe me, you’re better for it.” Hank flourishes his pencil, dropping a 7 down into the center sudoku square. “Now, have you settled yet on your editorial? Because you might want to consider something more close to home, not whether your subject’s gonna come with a Pulitzer Prize.”

Kurt sours at that, enough that it draws his expression back closer to his usual constipated self. The glare he fires Hank’s way feels familiar too, so Hank calls it a win and leaves it at that.


	6. Donnie B., 38 - Donnie’s Bar

Fourteen minutes before opening, Donnie takes an odd phone call from a woman he’s never met.

“Got six pies coming to you by eight tonight,” she tells him, cutting straight to business. “That enough time for you to get the main course in?”

“Uh,” Donnie says, misfiring. Deliveries aren’t scheduled on Thursdays. “Excuse me?”

The woman sighs, impatient. “Are you picking them up, or am I driving?”

“Driving … ?” Donnie guesses, though he’s interrupted by the rapidfire knocking coming from the front entrance. He shuffles in place, torn between the bar and the rattling door, and settles for retreating to the bar for a notepad. “Can I take your number and call you back?”

The woman harrumphs, the entirety of her displeasure buzzing down the line. “Tell them to stop by quarter-to if they want ‘em,” she says, and with it, she hangs up.

Donnie listens dully to the dead dial tone, his hand slowly carrying the receiver to the wall. The pounding comes again at the entrance and he snaps back to it, checking his watch as he walks. With the time in mind, he spares a few moments turning down the chairs he crosses along the way.

As it turns out, the half-a-dozen strangers who’ve come knocking have a huge favor to ask of him, and so with three minutes to spare before opening Donnie finds himself in the midst of planning an impromptu party, the bar closed to the public via a hastily-scribbled sign, made from Sharpie and printer paper, taped to the outside of the door.

Not his finest hour, maybe, but Donnie’s always been good at handling surprises. Birthdays aren’t in his usual business repertoire either, but the bartender life is nothing but unpredictable and Donnie considers himself adaptable. Once he found out who the party was for, well … It would be his pleasure to give Dean’s family a place to celebrate his day.

Familiar names step inside the bar to formally introduce themselves, now that Donnie’s given them the go-ahead. Dean’s brother, Sam, shows up alongside a woman named Jody, the both of them exchanging handshakes with Donnie before hashing out their vision for the evening. Most of what they’re looking for Donnie already has onhand—the burger buns and fixings are a given, and his usual menu fills out the rest of their requests. Then the younger kids come in carrying smoke-tinged streamers to hang around the place, and the chipper woman, Donna, pins the paper outline of some cryptid creature atop the bar’s dartboard. The man named Cas lastly follows, finally putting a face to the name.

By time Donnie’s staff has rolled in, the sound system is belting vintage rock and the room has shaped up into what could almost pass for an off-center, crowdsourced party. The servers on shift give him and Dean’s people odd looks when they grab their aprons and name tags, but for the most part Donnie gets away without any of them prying too deeply into his mindset, keeping silent on the questions that he’d have no chance to reasonably explain.

“So what time’s the birthday boy due?” Donnie asks, slapping a towel onto his shoulder. An hour has passed, and it seems like the rest of Dean’s people have sauntered in, the size of the crowd stabilizing somewhere around a couple dozen.  
  
An innocuous enough question, Donnie thought, except that it sets off a round of everyone staring at each other, followed by a furious scramble as they all reach for their phones. A race for an answer, and then the young blonde—Claire—holds her phone above her head and proudly shouts out Alicia’s ETA of an hour, her arm wagging like a victory flag.

Another hour seems like a while to kill without the guest of honor, but with the music playing and the beers flowing, nobody seems to mind. Sam starts a tab and orders a dozen plates of appetizers to tide them all over, and Donnie hangs behind the bar, fielding people as they come up to order drinks.

When trays of beers and nacho platters start making the rounds, the couple from New Mexico call everyone to join in a round-robin pool tournament they’re organizing. Despite their jovial promises to keep it casual, Donnie learns quickly to never bet a dime against any one of them—the entire crowds seems comprised of well-practiced pool sharks, the games playing out with a ruthless efficiency that inevitably favors whoever broke the rack.

By time the hour’s passed, Donnie has all but forgotten the odd phone call he fielded at the start of the evening, at least until a man in a trucker’s cap comes in late with a blonde woman, and the two of them head straight to Donnie to drop off twin stacks of boxed pies. The man extends a hand, calls himself Bobby, while the woman offers up _Mary_ and what Donnie must mishear as _Dean and Sam’s mom_. They wander off before Donnie has a chance to clarify, Mary finding Sam and offering him hugs and apologies for taking so long on the drive.

Claire and Patience come up to the bar with their own orders, all smiles and bright eyes above their clearly fake IDs. Donnie doesn’t call them on it, even with the sharp eye Jody has honed on them from her and Donna’s table, though he does pass along virgin versions of their orders without batting an eye. During his downtime he watches the drinking game they’ve established with the boy named Jack, and as they lose they start acting as bubbly as their drinks would’ve otherwise made them.

Donnie’s almost been lulled into complacency by time half a dozen phones chime out roughly at the same time. Sam tries to shout something from his table, but when the crowd doesn’t respond, Jody peals out a sharp whistle and calls loudly enough to bring them all to attention, shouting a no-nonsense, _T-minus three minutes, guys, they’re coming down the road_ —

The room succumbs organized chaos as everyone bumps and shuffles into a half-circle around the door, jabbing elbows at each other for not muffling their laughter. Anticipation breathes through them, inhaling so deeply that even Donnie leans forward on the bar, waiting for the door to swing open.

For the briefest moment, Donnie catches a glimpse of Dean before he sees them: Dean’s chin lifted back toward his shoulder, a half-grin offered to the twins, Max and Alicia, behind him. The sharp twist as his focus turns onto the room, shifting, uncomprehending, until Dean catches the familiar faces within. The shock that slackens his jaw, then the surprise as Claire, Alex and Patience set off a round of party poppers at him, and the whole crowd yells _Happy Birthday!_ horrendously out of sync.

Dean stands stock-still in the door frame, slowly processing the sight before him. Alicia and Max grab an arm apiece and drag him forward goodnaturedly, stepping back as people start hugging Dean and shaking his hand. Dean accepts it all with a baffled look on his face, looking like he can’t be certain he deserves any of it. His face lights up as Mary approaches, hugging him, and then Sam comes up, whispering something as he offers a hug of his own him. Dean starts laughing as they pull apart. Jack then follows, going for his hug, which Dean solidifies with a lifting grip and a bearhug twist at the end.

Jody and Alex, Donna and Cesar and Jesse all get in their congratulations, and then there’s a beat where Cas comes up and Dean is staring at him with some unreadable warmth to his face. Though it’s clear to Donnie, even at this distance, that a hug is called for in the moment, Dean just clears his throat and bows his head, glancing around like he’s not sure what to do. Cas has none of it, however, and opts to bully Dean into a firm hug instead, one that Dean rallies against, briefly, before succumbing with a fierce grip.

In a coordinated effort, Patience, Claire and Alex shout loudly that it’s time for presents, and from beneath a table they carry out a plastic bin filled with small gifts wrapped in either newspaper or princess-themed paper, no in-between. Dean gets pushed into a chair, and with a paper crown donned atop his head he’s passed a beer and begins picking his way through the modest pile. Around him, the pool games pick up again.

It’s a good night, so far as Donnie’s seen of nights like this one, but it’s not until he observes Dean hugging Claire in appreciation for her spearheading the evening that Donnie resolves that conclusion into something great. He takes a beat to take it all in, the network of people that Dean has gathered around him, the ragtag collective that calls themselves Dean’s family and friends. So different than the first few years Donnie had found Dean sidled up to his bar, drowning some unnameable misery with a haunted look in his eyes.

Conversation luxuriates around them, swirling through the room. Burgers are ordered by damn near everyone except a skinny guy who brought his own clamshell container, its contents indescribably red, and Donnie’s servers are kept busy busing tables for the next couple hours. Sam comes up to the bar for a pair of drinks and then sidles off to the side with Jody. A redheaded woman Donnie unfortunately recognizes appears for an order of red wine, grinning like a cat while Donnie keeps a cautious distance, his eyes peeled for any possible disruption Rowena might cast his way.

Cas had retreated from the crowd sometime after Claire covered Dean in fresh handfuls of confetti, opting to take perch by Donnie and nurse a single beer for the rest of the evening. Donnie takes the occasional quiet moment to size up the guy, taking the piecemeal history Dean’s given him over the years and putting it into context. Cas, for his part, seems to only have eyes for one part of the crowd, his somber attention softened by the small smile on his face. Donnie follows his gaze and finds Claire, Jack, and Patience roping Dean into their convoluted card game, and Dean taking the opportunity to cover Claire in confetti of his own.

“You’ve known him awhile?” Donnie asks, itching for intel in spite of himself.

Cas’ chin dips, smile bowing back to his drink. “Ten years.” He glances back to Dean, seeming wistful.

The trucker cap guy, Bobby, stands from his and Mary’s table, and begins rapping loudly on his glass, calling the room to attention. The crowd silences in fits and spurts until it’s quiet enough for Jody to speak.

Jody stands up on a side ledge, bringing her a head above everyone. “It’s not often, in this line of work, that you make it more than a decade. And it’s rarer still to be born into it and last more than three.” She raises her beer. “So here’s to you, Dean, for beating the odds and bringing us all together. And for showing us that this job doesn’t have to take your heart—you can keep it open for the strangers that come your way. To Dean!”

The crowd shouts back,  _To Dean_ , raising their motley collection of mugs and glasses. Someone yells, _To Strangers!_ , earning a mixed chorus of laughter and boos, their cups coming up for a second round of drinks. Another pair of voices—Claire and Donna, Donnie suspects—starts yelling for a speech, and then Sam and Mary are jostling Dean forward to where Jody had stood, and the crowd gets quiet once again.

Dean’s eyes are bright, shining even when dropped down to the beer in his hand. When he looks up, his expression sobers. He looks uncharacteristically sincere. “Uh. Like Jody said, I wasn’t planning to make it to forty. Better people than me didn’t. So.” He clears his throat. “The odds say that I shouldn’t’ve, not after everything me and Sam have done, but we’re here. So. Thank you. For seeing it through with me. And here’s hoping we’ll all be here to celebrate again next year.”

Dean ends by awkwardly raising his beer, his gaze dropped again as the crowd toasts back. He then heads quickly into the crowd, fielding another hug from Sam that lasts longer than their earlier one. Dean nods once at whatever Sam’s telling him, and then slaps his brother on the shoulder as they pull apart.

Conversations renew and pool games begin anew, and when the twins start an impromptu dance party Donnie turns the sound system up a little higher, drawing in more of a crowd with them. The servers prep fresh pitchers for the thirsty dancers, and with the lull in service, Donnie considers trying to talk again with Cas, but Cas still only has eyes for whatever Dean is doing at the moment, his affection clear across the room. (Dean, as it turns out, is dancing with Donna, the two of them attempting to out-embarrass each other with some spin on a macarena-chickendance.)

Dean eventually comes over sporting a big smile, pieces of confetti still in his hair. He slaps his hands onto the bar, announcing, “More shots!” and when he spies Cas sitting nearby with his empty, Dean cheers toward his presence and adds, elated, “Another beer for him too!”

Donnie passes Cas a fresh Texan Star before prepping Dean’s tequila shots. Cas moves a seat closer to Dean, leaning in to whisper something. Dean nods, grinning, his whole body relaxing with his smile. As Cas retreats from the barstool, he grips Dean’s shoulder, leans in, and presses his mouth against Dean’s temple. Dean bucks up at that and tugs Cas back before he goes, earning a small grin from Cas and a brief peck to the lips that lingers in Dean’s smile.

Cas disappears into the crowd, and Dean is facing back to Donnie, drumming his fingers across the bar. “So. Cas said something about there being pie?”

Donnie slaps his towel down, pouting in mock-affront. “Here I was thinking you’d stick to house specials. You suddenly too old for a nacho platter?”

Dean claps his hands and waves towards himself affably. “Bring ‘em both! I can eat for two.”

Grinning, Donnie leaves him to do just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rebloggable post is [here](https://vaudelin.tumblr.com/post/182275189943/let-me-lay-here-so-slow-i-need-never-get-old-the), for anyone wishing to support on Tumblr. Thank you for reading!


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